Time Waits For No One
by Allychik6
Summary: This is where my story truly begins, in the dark recesses of a cave...I was tired, hungry, but maybe time had simply run out on me.


**I had thought that my brain was just on heitus recently. The creative output has been on the low end. But I have come to realize that this was simply not true. Because my classes require so much of my time, and I have started working in a dinning hall, I do not have very much free time. And so, my brain, having come to this conclusion long before I did, decided to keep all the little ideas to itsef. But there is only so much it can take before something spills out. This is one of those little spills. I expect more to come.**

**Allychik6**

**Time Waits for No Man**

There are a lot of sayings about time. In fact, I think there is a saying for every occasion. Time is money. There must be a first time for everything. Time heals all. Third time is a charm. Time is a cure. Time will tell. Time works wonders. There are probably thousands of different idioms, but of all of them there is one that sticks in my mind more then any other.

Time waits for no man.

Ah, and that is the rub. We as a people are so obsessed with the idea of time that it controls everything we do. Everyday is dictated by a strict schedule that is in fact dominated by time. We know just what we are supposed to be doing simply by looking at a watch, or a sundial, or even the sky. It controls every aspect of our lives. And yet time is not in anyway beholden to us. It is ironic that we should be so dependent on something that has no need of us what so ever.

Time waits for no one. It doesn't wait for someone to be ready for that big exam coming up, or for the important presentation on which your whole career rests. It does not wait for you to eat breakfast first thing in the morning or for you to finish all of your homework before midnight.

Time does not wait for me to come to terms with something before thrusting me into its path. It did not wait for me to comprehend my emotions for Harry before throwing we into his arms, and I had years to prepare for that. And it certainly does not spare a moment for me to ready myself for the killing curse to be hurled in my direction. If I am unprepared, then the fault is entirely mine. I learned this lesson hard and early. Eleven is an awfully young age to be facing the dark lord no matter who you are. But I learned my lesson, oh did I learn my lesson.

After the incident in the Chamber of Secrets, I vowed to never let such a thing happen to me. I would be prepared to face the dark lord when the time came, because it most certainly would. And of course, there was "no time like the present" to get started on my mission.

I may not have been the best of students, but I certainly knew what I was talking about. Every new spell was a potential weapon to be turned against my enemies, every new potion a way to turn the tide against evil. But for us, "time was of the essence". The war was fast approaching, more quickly then any of us could have truly prepared for. But then again, since we knew it was coming, we used every spare moment to ready ourselves for the coming onslaught.

War is a terrible thing. There are no words to describe the sight of a battlefield where friends, family, and enemies all die together. In death everyone is the same. There is no discrimination. The agony of watching a slow death is just as bad as the shock at a quick one. And of course, the ones who survive are filled with both guilt and relief. Why did I make it? And the endless praises for surviving one more day.

Those were the days when I counted each moment spent with my family as time apart from the real world. Those rare moments I horded carefully against the days and months I spent running and hiding. They were stolen moments. They were gifts from father time.

And of course they didn't last forever.

This is where my story truly begins, in the dark recesses of a cave in which I had no business being in. But I was tired, and I was hungry, and I couldn't walk any farther. It was foolish of me to let myself become such a useless creature, but maybe time had simply run out on me.

He was in the cave, not waiting for me that was obvious. But there, nonetheless. We saw each other at the same moment, and I didn't bother to fight back. The ache in my bones had grown to be more then I could bear and the weight of my arms too great for me to lift. And I'm sure that even if I could have raised my wand against him that no spells would have come to mind.

All I could do was stare at him without thought. Not a single one. Not even "Oh, Malfoy." My head was as blank and empty as the deep silence that stretched between us.

He didn't even have to conjure the ropes that bound my arms, because I was too tired to run from him. All I wanted was to lay my head down and fall into that oblivion known as dreamless sleep. Maybe when I woke, I would be able to think enough to make sense of the craziness that had become my life.

I don't remember what happened after my eyes closed. I know I dreamed, but of what I couldn't say. Maybe I dreamt of the battles I had fought in or the friends that had died. There was always the possibility of running, running and not being able to stop but not being able to continue either. I could have dreamt that the war was over and all was well, but that is highly unlikely. There comes a time when you can no longer think any farther then the next day or hour or minute. And that point had long passed for me.

When I woke, I remember being very confused. It wasn't unusual for me to wake and not know where I was, but this was something else entirely. I felt warm, which was an almost unknown experience in the last few weeks. And I felt rested, which since I couldn't remember a time when I wasn't tired was oddly comforting.

For several minutes I did not bother to ask how I had come to such a place. I had learned to be grateful for the small pleasures in life, to not question the good things because they would soon be gone. I sat up and looked about the room, admired the bed and dresser with a mirror on top. There was even a carpet on the floor. Which probably said more about my living conditions of the last few months then anything else.

"Ahm," Someone coughed from the doorway, and I turned to stare. He had a tray of food in his hands, a bowl of something and a glass of juice.

I stared.

He looked awkwardly away, and I realized that I wasn't wearing any clothes.

No one blushes like a redhead. I don't know if it has something to do with out genetics or if the red hair just makes I more obvious, but no one blushes like a redhead. "Sorry." I mumbled and yanked the sheet up.

I didn't look up from my lap until he spoke again. "No, I should be the one to apologize, but your clothes were in such a bad condition, I couldn't let you stay in them." So he wasn't as red as I was, but it was just as noticeable. When you have such pale skin, the redness stands out. "You should probably eat."

Is it mean of me to say that I took a certain joy out of his obvious discomfort? I don't think so. He looked so cute with his head bowed down and his hair falling in his eyes, just like a small boy caught in the middle of some heinous sin, because all misdeeds at that age are heinous and sins.

"Thank you." I reached for the bowl and spoon, but I had to drop the sheet in the process. There was no way I could hold up all three at the same time, and he didn't offer to help. Not that he could have done anything.

He didn't look at me, and he didn't leave. His gaze remained fixed on the wall. I snuck glances at him every so often while I sipped at the broth. "How long?"

"Just a few days." He was silent for a moment, the two of us caught in a comraderie that I have never experienced before or after. The two of us were deserters, hiding for the terrors of the world. It didn't matter that we were on opposite side or that we had hated each other as children. Now we were just two people, two hurt and needy people. And then he asked me the same question, "How long?"

There was no way to tell how long what. It could have been fighting, or sick, or any number of questions, but I knew what he meant. How long had I been on the run? "I can't remember." I set the bowl and spoon back on the trey. "I think forever."

We didn't say anything else. He got up, lifted the trey from the nightstand, and walked to the door. It was on the tip of my lips to call him back, to ask another question, but it was the one I feared the answer to. How long could we stay like this? He paused at the doorway, as if tempted to turn around, as if he too had a question to ask or an answer to give, but then the moment passed. And he left.

At first it was hard. I wasn't strong enough to do much beyond feed myself. The fever that had knocked me out, the one that had sent me to dizzying moments of fear and horror, and sucked all of the strength out of me, and I was still very much in its grasp. There were times when I couldn't tell what was real and what was illusion, when I lost all track of whether it was day or night, when I burned with more then just the fever.

And he sat by my side the whole time, putting cool cloths on my head and praying. I hadn't known he was religious until I woke one morning to find him asleep in the chair by my bed, a cross necklace clutched in his hand. There were a lot of things I didn't know about him. And even more that I still don't know.

The turning point in our relationship surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly, was in the bathroom. I was still having trouble dressing and undressing, which meant that he was doing it for me. He still blushed and looked away.

It was time for my bath, a moment I both loved and hated.

By this time, I was desirous of my companion. He had been nothing but kind. And I had come to depend on his gentle smile, the soft brush of his skin against mine, and the way he spoke to me as an equal. We were not perfect. There were days of bitter and long silence, but he always came when I needed him.

Thus bath time was both pleasurable and excruciating.

He always stood behind me so that he was less tempted to take advantage of me. I remember the feel of his fingers as they brushed against my skin when he lifted up my shirt. It was light and fleeting, almost non-existent. His hands moved down to my hips to slide off the skirt, and they gently ran down my legs in a barely-there caress. And then he turned to face to wall, so that I could climb into the bath with some level of modesty. It was the little things that he did, the things to maintain some sense of propriety that got to me.

"Turn around." I stood before him, knowing that he would not judge, that he would not make a mockery of me, but I was unsure of what he would do.

He looked me in the eye after a single glance downwards. I'm sure he read the truth there. I know that I read it in his eyes. We were the same, him and I. Two soldiers tired of fighting the good fight, tired of seeing our friends die, tired of the constant pain. And we were both looking for a little comfort, someone to lean on for a little while and make the pain hurt just a little less.

And we found that in each other's arms. I felt as though I had come home.

But time moves on, it does not stay the same. Or, as the saying goes time flies, perhaps on the proverbial wings of a bird. But I think that no bird could ever fly as fast as those few months went. Time is rather damning that way. Eventually the war came to us. We could not hide from it forever. He left me a note on the nightstand before he left I cannot say how glad I am that he did not tell me he was leaving. It was another one of those small acts. If he had told me I might have begged him to stay, begged him not to leave me alone with the war again.

As it was, I was hard pressed not to ask him to stay. After all, I had known that it was coming, had known that our little piece of heaven could not last for much longer, had known that he could not stay, no matter how much I wanted him to. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, wait there in the little house, just sit and wait for everything to come get me.

The war was calling us home.

When Harry came in through the front door, banging it against the wall. I had already said my goodbyes and accepted that which I didn't want to. My world had just come to an end for the second time, and I had just sat back to watch it all happen. That is a very hard thing to do. Harry came in all smiles and relief, all love and affection. And I went to him willingly if not happily. My sanctuary had been defiled. It was just another rape of my life.

We went back to the war, back to the running, hiding and killing. I went back to fearing for every second that passed by. But now, it was with new and open eyes. I could no longer see the enemy as evil, for everyone I killed was someone's brother, mother, child, everyone had a family that loved them, worried for them, and wanted them to come home safe.

Everyone I killed was _him_.

By this time my own family was shattered by the war. Nearly everyone had died or disappeared. And the only one I knew for sure about was Ron. He and Hermione were firmly on Harry's side. They couldn't see how this war was destroying everything that they loved and valued. All they could see was the damage inflicted by the "other side".

They could not see the truth of the situation in front of us.

To me it was all the same. One side or the other, the death of a friend or the enemy, one day or another. Nothing changed, nothing. But I knew that it could not last forever. Eventually the war would end, but that is a hard thing to take comfort in when you also know that the world I loved would never be the same again.

So instead, I waited. Each day and night, each battle, each meal, was just a way to pass the time. I waited for the day that someone told me of my lover's death, for the day that everything finally became worthless to me. In my heart I wished to die so that we might meet again in some other realm where there was no war to separate us. I wished for peace, even the peace of death.

And, as it would seem, time has a sense of irony. Before I could cast myself onto the growing list of casualties, Harry defeated Voldemort. The war ended without a kindly spell to help me along.

Life moves on, despite the number of deaths, despite the damaged wrecked upon society, and despite my own personal misgivings. People wake each morning now and head off to work in this not quite metropolis that used to be wizarding London. I sit out in front of the café and watch as everyone passes by. I like to imagine certain faces out in the crowd, ones I know I will never see, and ones I simply hope will come striding up. The owner indulges me in this little fantasy because I make a mean cup of coffee, which everyone drinks now.

It's a little harder to get started in the morning, knowing that some people will never see it. But I hold out just a little longer, hoping. They say there is a time and place for everything. And I believe this to be true. For everything there is a season…a time to be born, and a time to die…a time to kill, and a time to heal, a time to break down, and a time to build up, a time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance…a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate, a time for war, and a time for peace. The wheel turns and returns.

Time waits for no man, and so I am waiting for time.


End file.
